"No longer," Oskar said, and clicked the briefcase open. The tall man removed a single syringe and a small bottle of clear liquid. Potassium chloride, the dose of which would cause a massive cardiac arrest. The same liquid he'd injected into the congressman's heart, so many years before.
Morales felt the first traces of fear, underlying the rage.
"Oskar," Morales said, "There is someone else who knows about our work. About Il Contionum's work. He's a reporter, and he knows too much. We must find him, and kill him."
"Will you die with honor?" Oskar said, ignoring him as he filled the syringe with the clear liquid and then tapped the plastic base to clear the remain air bubbles.
"Oskar."
"Will you die with honor, sir?"
Morales watched, those first tinges of fear transforming into a horror that was almost completely foreign to him. He'd watched the congressman die, watched the pain in his eyes, the muscles tensing as his body died. Even though the congressman hadn't screamed, Morales could see the excruciating torture as his body twisted and writhed and died.
When it was over, there was nothing, and it was that nothingness that caused the horror to overtake the anger, the terror to fill his mind and soul.
"Oskar," Morales said, but the tall man moved toward him, the syringe reflecting the low light in the hospital room.
The door suddenly swung open, banging into the wall with a loud thwack and knocking a bottle of hand sanitizer and a box of latex gloves to the floor. Both Morales and Oskar jerked toward the sound, Oskar pulling a silver pistol from inside his coat and raising it toward the intruder.
At first, Morales thought it must be one of the guards, maybe recovering from a blow to the head outside his door, but just as soon as he had that thought, he realized that Oskar would not have let any witnesses live. To all future onlookers of this scene, Morales would have been finished off by the same assassin who'd started the job. The policemen guarding his room, and maybe even some nurses would have just been victims to an unexplained act of violence toward one of the city's cops. Morales knew this because that is what he would have done.
It wasn't the police guard who came barreling low into the room, but the reporter from before. Morales watched as Paul smashed into Oskar with the force of a linebacker, sending them both pummeling into the wall. Oskar fired two silenced shots, but they went wild, piercing the ceiling above Morale's head.
The lamp on the bedside table crashed to the floor, toppling the machine monitoring Morales' vitals to the ground, and Morales caught a glimpse of the syringe holding his death skittering beneath a small chest of drawers.
As the men struggled, Morales ripped the brace from his neck and shoulder, screaming in pain as a jolt of bright white agony ignited in his injured shoulder and thudded throughout his body.
Oskar and Paul were on the ground, thrashing. Oskar punched Paul in the side of his head, blood bursting from the reporter's ear, and shoved his forearm into his face. As Paul grunted and winced with the force of the blow, Oskar rolled over on top of him, tearing at the reporter's face with his fingers, the muscles in his hands and wrists and arms tensed and shuddering. Paul began to scream.
Morales swung his feet to the floor, feeling shaky and uneasy as he tried to stand. The world wobbled, and that throbbing, flashing white pain just wouldn't stop. He scanned the floor and found what he was looking for: Oskar's gun, the silencer still screwed to the barrel.
He took a step forward and stumbled to his knees, smacking his injured shoulder on the hard floor. The explosion of pain nearly sent him spiraling into unconsciousness, darkness bursting from the edges of his vision. He resisted the urge to give in to the darkness and thrust his body along the floor in a slow, agonizing slide toward the weapon. Finally his fingers grasped at the barrel, and he pulled it closer.
Paul was screaming in full bellow as he punched Oskar in the side and face and head. The bigger man didn't seem to notice, but moved his thumbs until they were over Paul's eyes before pushing down. Paul's scream was no longer from just pain, but from panic and the fear of losing his eyes. The pressure intensified and he bucked his body and punched, but Oskar didn't move, just pushed harder against his eyes, waiting for the pop when the sclera ruptured.
The whisper of a gunshot sounded, barely discernible among Paul's screams, and was quickly followed by a thud, as Oskar was thrown to the ground by the force of the bullet. Paul looked up, his eyes watering and his head pounding, to see Morales leveling the gun at him.
"Who are you, really?" Morales asked.
"I told you," Paul said through rasping gasps for air. "Paul—"
"How do you know about Miami?"
"Was … was there," Paul said.
Morales tried to stand, but the drugs that'd been used on him during the recent surgery in his shoulder, and the thudding pain throughout his body, prohibited the movement and he nearly fell. He dropped the gun to his side as he realized that no matter how quiet and discreet Oskar had been in coming to his room, the ensuing fight was sure to get some attention.
"They're dead," Paul said, more of his voice coming through now. "The guy who was trying to kill you also killed the cops guarding your room. And the nurse, maybe others."
Morales wanted to kill the reporter right there, to put a bullet in him as he'd done with Oskar, but he needed Paul's help to get out of the room. If Oskar had been sent to finish Morales, surely they would send another.
"I need your help." Morales said as he pulled himself to a standing position by the bed. "We've got to get out of here."
"But the police will be here, and they'll see that your attacker is dead." Paul was getting up now too, being careful to avoid Oskar's corpse. "If we run, it might look like we're guilty."
"I'm going to tell you something right now, and you've got to listen carefully," Morales said. "Whoever sent this man to kill me will send someone else. If any word gets out that you were here, and the word will get out, then you're a dead man too. These people, they're very powerful. Now I need you to get my things for me, and help me out of here. We'll have to take the stairs to the garage. The elevator is too risky."
"But you just got shot, you need to rest," Paul said. He pointed to Morales' shoulder, where blood was seeping through the bandage.
"I'll rest later," Morales nearly shouted. "We've got to get out of here now!"
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Before Mae even rounded the corner in the hallway that led to baggage claim and the exit, she could smell the roasted aroma of freshly ground coffee. Mae inhaled deeply and savored the smell, wishing she’d held onto Ms. Pettingale’s credit card for 10 minutes more. She snaked her hand into her pocket and felt for any spare change, even though she knew nothing was there.
As she approached the little coffee stand, advertising the local Green Mountain blends, she felt a wave of fatigue rush over her, and the smell of the coffee wasn’t just enticing, but one of necessity. It was always like that—no matter how rested she was, the smell of coffee always made her feel tired, like she needed that quick boost of energy to take another step. And if there was ever a time when she might have actually needed the caffeine for those additional steps, it was now. She felt sluggish and tried to think of when she’d last had a good night's sleep. The nap on the plane hadn’t counted, because for her, sleep on an airplane was never refreshing. Surely, the last good night of sleep had come before the few days in the cabin, and even then, the rest had been almost frenzied, pocked with paranoia and the sense that there was someone always just outside, waiting to break in.
Mae stopped in front of the counter and read over the various types of coffee that were printed on the chalkboard above the register. Two employees bustled about as quickly as possible for it being in the middle of the night. The woman, a heavyset hipster in black skinny jeans, a knit cap on her nappy hair, and black-rimmed holes in her ears, was busy emptying and cleaning carafes. She directed the other employee at certain tasks—a teenager who looked t
ired and bored, as if this job were his father’s idea, and his father’s only. When the boy saw her standing in front of the counter, he looked relieved to escape the menial tasks of closing shop to help a customer. He stood at the register, swaying on his feet. The expression of relief in his eyes quickly gave way to the same tired and bored expression that’d been there before. He had a fresh bout of acne on his forehead and around his nose. Thin-rimmed glasses covered his eyes, and his longish hair was parted but strewn messily about. He waited patiently by the register, shifting from one foot to the other, shrugging every few seconds.
“Can I help you?” he finally asked.
“I don’t think so,” Mae said with a wan smile. She turned her attention back to the chalkboard, and the description of a type of toasted marshmallow latte that she’d never heard of. It was a curious flavor, but not one that she would ever try. She hated all the sugar and milk and flavors that people poured into coffee to hide the pungent but woody flavor of roasted beans.
The cashier suddenly looked more than confused.
“I’m just looking, thank you,” she said. The kid looked away and sighed, watching another group of people enter the baggage claim area from another concourse.
“Well,” the kid said after a few more moments, “if you’re not going to get anything, I’ve got to start cleaning up. I get off at 2:30—late shift, you know, and I want to leave as soon as we close …”
His voice trailed off, but he didn’t move from his post behind the register.
“Seriously, you’re making this kid so nervous, it’s making me nervous,” a familiar voice said from behind her. She turned, trying to snap out of her daze—she couldn’t get over how tired she felt—and saw Ryan sitting at a table toward the rear of the café area, thumbing through the same magazine he’d been looking at on the airplane. The magazine was looking more and more like a prop to Mae, something Ryan didn’t read, but held onto for the sake of holding something.
Mae just stared at him and tried not to look at his perfect grey eyes, cold as they were. She forced her gaze away from his face, and from him in general, turning back to the sign above the café’s counter.
“You’d think I was Dr. Kemp’s good friend Griffin, with that look you’re giving me.”
“I don’t understand,” Mae said, her mind finally catching up with the situation. Jeeze, she was tired—the weight of the last few days coming down on her like a grand piano on the Road Runner in those old cartoons.
“H.G. Wells, come on …” Ryan gave her a look of disbelief and shook his head. He approached the teenage cashier and placed his wallet on the counter.
“I’ll have what she’s having.”
“She isn’t having anything,” the teenager said with cocked eyebrows. Ryan was clearly the only one who seemed to be thinking at normal speeds at the moment.
“I thought you’d already gone from here,” Mae said, and Ryan turned from the counter. Mae saw the coldness still in his eyes, but there was another expression that wasn’t there before. He looked curious, but also mildly concerned. He didn’t want to talk about it right there in the open room coffee shop, but he did want to talk. He cocked his head sideways to the menu, as if to say, “Hurry up already, order before we give this poor kid an aneurism.”
“Double Americano,” she said with a faint smile, and sat down at the table where Ryan had been waiting for her.
“And she’s not messing around,” Ryan said, turning back to the cashier. “If I had a double right now, I’d be bouncing around like a hyperactive pinball. I’ll just have a cup of your darkest roast.”
The kid, who seemed to be relieved that the awkwardness of the last few minutes was over, punched a few buttons on his register, and Ryan paid for the drinks. As Mae sat, her eyelids grew heavier by the second and her brain seemed to be shutting her body down on its own accord, despite her desperate efforts to stay awake. She blinked rapidly and stretched her aching muscles, wondering what good the nap on the airplane had done, with this creeping fatigue setting in. After a few seconds, the desire to lay her head on the table and slip into the void was too much for her, and she stood up.
A row of television monitors caught her attention, all tuned to CNN, where a man with a strong jaw and immaculate hair was speaking seriously into the camera. It wasn’t the man who caught Mae’s expression, as almost all news anchors looked the same to her—it was what he was talking about.
“—shooting at Chicago O’Hare International Airport, with the shooter still at large …” A video shot from a roving helicopter appeared on the screen, showing the road that wound around the airport completely blocked by ambulances and police cars. The news anchor's voice came in over the image.
“Police are saying that the shooting took place in an unmarked police van just outside the airport. The van was parked in the unloading zone, but airport security apparently recognized the tags as belonging to the Chicago PD."
“Again, this begs the question, Charles, do we need more restrictions on firearms? Time and time again, we are seeing these public shootings by psychopaths who are able to get a gun with no problems whatsoever. We’ve got these psychos gunning down children in schools and movie theaters, and now cops at airports.”
“That’s a good point, Sally, and a question that will likely be debated with fervor as this police shooting unfolds. For those viewers just joining us, Detective Robert Morales of the Chicago PD was shot tonight in an unmarked van outside O’Hare International. The shooter is still at large, causing all flights to be grounded until further notice."
An image of the police officer that Mae had shot flashed up on the screen. The detective was sitting in front of an American flag and looked noble as he posed for his official photo. The expression on Morales’ face was serious, but he had a faint smile that Mae knew was charming. She also knew that anyone looking at this picture right now would instantly empathize with the fallen peace officer—a man of duty and courage who’d been gunned down by a lunatic.
Of course, all those people looking at his picture now did not know the truth about this man. They had not seen the spittle flying from his mouth as he raged and slammed his fist into the wall next to her head, again and again, and then when her mother was finally dead, how he had knelt over her and relished the last few seconds of her life like a wine connoisseur contemplating the after notes of a rather fine La Tâche. They did not know of his relentless pursuit, and his willingness to brutally kill anyone in his way. Even Mae doubted that she knew the true extent of this man who was really a monster in human skin, who felt no remorse for taking a life.
Now, looking at his picture on the bank of television screens, amid the drone of the anchor’s voice, Mae wished that she’d killed him in much the same way that he’d killed her mother. The thought that he would live another day, and now as a near-martyr hero made her feel like throwing up.
“Please sit down,” Ryan said, crossing over to her table with the two cups. “You’re making me nervous now. You’re like a monkey on speed.”
Mae closed her eyes and forced the image of the killer detective from her mind, and concentrated again on the situation at hand. She wasn’t out of it yet, not until she ditched Ryan and got on her way. Sure, he was cute—the sound of his voice and his smile, and the way he studied her with a curious affection—but she couldn’t afford to get close to anyone, now that her mom was gone. Because when you’re close to someone, or worse yet, when you love someone, there is a breaking point. The loved one became a leverage point that someone like Morales could use to make her do anything that he wanted. With no one special in her life, at least not anymore, there would be no leverage. Never again.
When she opened her eyes, the thoughts of Morales were pushed away, and she smiled.
“Did you just call me a monkey?” she said, not sure whether she should be offended by his comment or not. He was smiling at her though, a crooked and goofy half grin that made her feel giddy.
“On speed,”
he confirmed and held the warm cup out to her.
Mae took the offered cup of coffee and sipped at the bitter drink, instantly feeling relieved. She sat back down at the table, holding the cup in both hands. She bent forward and breathed the earthy aroma, allowing even the smell to calm her nerves.
Ryan turned to the bank of television screens and motioned with this cup.
“Crazy, huh?” he said. “And to think that we almost got stuck in that mess.”
“I know, right?”
“I was watching that for a few minutes while I waited for you, seems like we got out of the Chicago at the perfect moment—and they’re thinking that whoever shot the cop was either getting on an airplane, or just getting off.” He stopped talking for a few seconds while he placed his cup on the table and set a handful of creamers and sugar packets into a little pile next to his cup.
He nodded, as if to agree with his own thoughts, and said, “Which is probably why those stooges were checking passports.”
“Yeah, probably.”
Ryan fell quiet again, and Mae was relieved that he didn’t continue that line of thinking. Instead, he began to slowly unpeel the wrappers from cups of cream and pour them into his drink. Once the cream was in, he ripped opened four sugar packets at the same time and dumped them all into the cup. Mae almost gagged at the thought of so much sugar and cream, but she kept it to herself. He caught Mae watching him and grinned again.
“You’re probably thinking that this is a lot of sugar and cream, and you’d be right.”
Mae nodded and took another sip of her drink, relishing the warmth and feeling more alert and awake with every tiny swallow.
“Truth is, I’m not a huge fan of the coffee flavor, which again, given my last name, is a bit ironic. I much prefer the taste of the cream and sugar that you add to the coffee—especially around this time of year, you know with all the flavored creamers and such.”
Mae nodded again, and took another sip. She took her coffee black, as she’d always done, from the moment she’d snuck a drink from her father’s cup as a child.
The Snow Swept Trilogy Page 20
